I have no patience for people that don’t like Mariah Carey. The reason I can so assertively say this is because most people that don’t like Mariah Carey (musical tastes notwithstanding) often don’t like her because they think she’s a whore. That’s interesting, since that’s how most of Hollywood works and quite honestly, there’s no real proof that she is any more of a whore than anyone else. Do you know anything of her history? What you’re upset at is her boobs. Just say it. I think Mariah Carey sucks because of her boobs. Good. Now that that’s out of the way…
Mariah Carey is one of my moms. I (dramatically) have a few famous “moms” that I say helped raised me since my real mom (who’s totally in my life and was back then) lived in another city when I was growing up. Without Mariah in my life, I would not have had anything to play at my tenth birthday pool party but horrid kids’ music and thank my lucky stars I didn’t have to go down that route. Even an elementary school teacher my sister and me both had once told us she had a dream about us dancing with Mariah in her “Dreamlover” video. She pictured us out in the fields, with tied-up plaid shirts and 90’s-tastic shorts. That’s intense.
Mariah Carey is an amazing singer and she’s a bit of a cartoon. She is practically imperfect in every way. This makes her precious and tragic and, to me, loveable. I love her older music more than her new music. I love her incessant use of adverbs. I love the fact that, because I sang it a hundred times a day in my formative singing years (before school choirs usurped my confidence) I can sing “Vanishing” a hundred times better than I can sing “Happy Birthday.”
This concert was probably only the third time I’ve seen her live, but I kind of think it was the fourth time. My sister will correct me on this one. She is the Memory Woman.
Boy, haven’t you noticed the gleaming in my eye? Because of you I’m a little hypnotized
I was exhausted. My baby boy doesn’t like sleeping anymore. I mean, he’s sooo over it. I was worried about making it through the day and staying awake during the concert without the help of commercially-sold stimulants (I have a concert-sleeping track record that is, quite frankly, embarrassing). However, I made it and it was beautiful out. “Beautiful” in Arizona standards means it was chilly and rainy. Yippee!!!
So I packed up my Louis Vuitton, jumped in your ride and took off
If only. The ill-timed downpour at the workday’s end caused me to make a gametime decision that surprised me. The exodus of librarians contained smart folk who all huddled under their various coats and umbrellas and one silly librarian who took off her sweater, draped it over her LV purse, and proceeded to run zig-zags through people, carrying her bag like a newborn football baby. I faced the elements in my tissue-thin blouse and I lost. I’m sure I got looks. Eh.
Needless to say, I had taken many a backstep from the level of glam I wanted to present for such a divalicious affair. My good friend was in town for the concert and I was meeting other Mariah girls at my house. I had no time to fix what the rain took away! Lucky for me, my sister is crafty and had differently-colored butterfly headbands and charmbracelets waiting for us. I could no longer be dowdy, even if I tried.
Seein’ right through you like you’re bathing in Windex.
With the Usual Mariah Suspects in tow, I headed out, into the rain. I promised the girls food and the growl of my stomach reminded me that, nope, I had not eaten at home as I’d vowed. I heard Ms. Carey was venturing out onto the stage later and later each night of her tour, so this meant no food till approximately midnight for Kristl. So…
Up we drove to Zoë’s Kitchen, much to the chagrin of the girl behind the register. Thanks to her sullen reminder, our ability to read and common knowledge, we knew they closed in twenty minutes. I’m sorry. I love your restaurant and I had no concert-day foresight. I know I suck.
So… I broke my Lenten promise but I’m sure my food had been spit in, if that makes it any better.
‘Cause they be all up in my business like a Wendy interview
At the Dodge, we arrived in time to use the ladies’ and get to our row with enough time to hear three Michael Jackson songs as played by the DJ and see Her Mariahsty enter.
I do have to say that the restroom would very easily perpetuate any misconceptions that Mariah is whorish because of some of her fans. They’re not all librarians, secretaries, teachers and bankers. Most of them look like they got sprayed down with four letter words and contraceptives. That’s as nicely as I could say that.
So, I thought it was very lovely when one of them complimented our headbands. This created a wave of praise in the sea of girls jockeying for prime mirror real estate. And it perpetuated my notion that these girls secretly want to be Martha Stewart at the end of the day.
Through yellow lights, I’m ignoring every sign of caution that they provide
After the shifting aside of the inevitable seat-stealers, we realize we have serious ticket matching issues. Four-fifths of us are in one row and one of us is… closer?
My first reaction (as always) was defensive. “NO! When I bought these, they were all together!!!”
My second reaction was sadness. “Noo… I’m so sorry…”
My third reaction was, “Where is she going?!” My friend, who, I’m sure was upset we couldn’t sit together either, was gone. Ticket taken and off to her seat closer to the stage.
I spent the remainder of the night:
- Worried she secretly hated me for not reading the Ticketmaster info more carefully.
- Singing much louder than I should have been singing.
- Mentally turning all Mariah’s costumes into paper doll outfits.
- Distracted that my favorite dancer looked like Bradley Cooper and wondering how well Bradley Cooper dances. Could he sing? Which could he do better? Does he know that his last name means someone that makes barrels?
- Much like Mlle. Amélie Poulain, I liked looking back in the theater seeing people’s faces during sad songs and parts with great lyrics. I also like seeing old people dance.
- Realizing from afar that my friend’s blue butterfly was bopping happily along and my initial ticket arranging mistake was sort of meant to happen.
Je ne sais pas mais c’est la vie!